


Crush with Eyeliner

by foundbyjohndoe



Series: Bert's Birthday Oneshots [5]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Blood and Injury, Explicit Sexual Content, Intoxication, Kinda, M/M, Warped Tour, but very minor, handjobs, idk anything about fob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:00:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27729163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundbyjohndoe/pseuds/foundbyjohndoe
Summary: Pining during warped but mikey is dumb about itPete wentz having no impulse control but being a consent kingThere is smut in this oneTitle from Crush with Eyeliner by R.E.M
Relationships: Mikey Way/Pete Wentz
Series: Bert's Birthday Oneshots [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2027575
Comments: 1
Kudos: 23





	Crush with Eyeliner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [I_BERT](https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_BERT/gifts).



There’s something to be said about the correlation between Mikey Way’s clothing and the way he plays bass.

That’s not to say that Way’s squared shoulders and locked knees inhibit his performance as a bassist - it actually gives My Chem’s performances a balancing fixture so the left side of the stage isn't just a blur while Ray Toro stands strong on the right -, but Pete can’t help but notice how tiny and how tight his shirts and pants are. 

It’s clearer when the dude is offstage, cause everyone looks exposed under stage lights. When Mikey passes Pete, his glasses fogged, his thin blue tee soaked, the backstage light too dim to bounce off his black skinny jeans, he looks fucked. Like. So fucked. Sometimes Patrick has to go on and then come back off to pull Pete up after My Chem’s sets. It’s so grade school, Pete almost can’t stand it. Almost. 

It would probably be disrespectful to call the style Mikey Way dresses ‘easy’, but that’s all Pete can think of when he sees the lighter haired Way slink out the greenroom door to watch Fall Out Boy’s set. Fucking easy. He didn’t even have to yell into the mic like last night, or hipcheck the dude at sound check. Mikey just kinda … came out to watch. He’s changed shirts, but this new, black, tee looks just as easy to pull off as the baby blue. Easy. 

Pete feels great.

Pete knows he’s not easy or tight like Mikey when he plays. He is all over the place, usually ending up half off stage after failing his bass spin, and his jeans are pretty baggy, now that he thinks about it. Pete does, however, know that he looks fucked when he pulls himself up off the black marley. His mouth is a bit open, even as he swallows, and somewhere out in the crowd he hopes Mikey is eyeing the way Pete’s chest is heaving the same way Pete does to him.

Patrick kicks him - thank god the dude wore converse tonight - and Pete guesses that's his queue to get the fuck off stage for the next band. 

He follows Andy off through the back, swinging his bass onto his back before a techie rushes over to revolve and unplug it. Pete grins at her and she flashes a small smile to him before ducking into the dark. 

They’re all bats, he thinks. Vampires or something.

And now he’s thinking about My Chemical Romance, which means he’s thinking about Mikey. Pete really needs to hook up with him and get it all out then and there so he can like … focus and shit. But also, if spacing out just means intensely examining the space between Mikey Way’s jeans and shirt, Pete’s kinda okay with that. 

But then again, he has been standing in the same spot since the techie took his bass away. Like. A full two minutes ago. 

Yeah, he needs to get with Mikey.

And soon.

* * *

Ray Toro actually finds him before Pete can even locate Patrick. 

Pete is kinda impressed - he’s not a very tall dude, so he can be overlooked even when he wants to be found. Toro must've been on a mission. 

“Hey, Pete, right?” The dude says, folding his arms into his upper ribs probably in an attempt to be less intimidating. Y’know. The 6 foot dude with what looks like more arm muscles than Pete’s entire band combined. 

“Yeah, that’s me.” Pete replies, eyes still trained on Toro’s arms. Pete isn’t colty or anything but. Wow. 

Fuck, is he into Toro now too? What was it with My Chem and having hot guitarists? Well … Pete thinks about Frank Iero and his fucking insane thrashing thing he does on stage. When Pete Wentz judges you for acting out on stage … well. Anyway. Toro is speaking.

“-And I was wondering if you could ask him?”

Pete blinks hard, pulling his eyes away from Toro’s arms. 

“Huh?” He says, as eloquently as possible. 

Toro shakes his head, hair swaying, and Pete gets a shrill of panic down his spine before Toro raises his head up and Pete can see his smile. 

“You’re like Gee, man. You gotta stay with me Wentz.”

Pete nods, bouncing on his heels and returning the smile out of habit. 

“I was asking about Patrick,” Toro continues,”and if he’d be up to playing for us tomorrow.”

“But-” Pete says, “You have two guitarists? Is Iero okay?”

It wouldn’t be the first time the rhythm guitarist tapped out on tour - Pete’s heard that Frank's Got an impressively terrible immune system. 

Toro shudders, clearly remembering Iero Plague Past.

“Nah man,” he says once he’s recomposed, “Frank’s all good. Gee and I were wondering if he’d be down to be our drums.”

Oh. 

“Oh.” Pete says. His brain is going a million miles a minute. Oh. This is gonna be good.

“It’s okay if not,” Toro is saying, “We just thought it’d be -”

“Oh no, no!” Pete all but cries, bouncing up and down violently, “He’d love to! Patrick was just talking about how he missed drums like, last fucking week! Trust me dude. I’ve gotchu.”

Toro grins.

Patrick was gonna kill Pete. This was gonna be so fucking great. 

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Patrick tries to kill Pete. There is quite a bit of parkour on Pete’s part and mic stand waving on Patrick’s. All in all, a great time and a great way to get Mikey Way out of Pete’s head for a night. 

He feels a little cowardly, watching Patrick frantically practice on a random kit backstage, not just going up to the Way dude and propositioning him clear and simple, but hey. Pete’s allowed to be a coward like … once in a blue moon. 

That reminds him - he needs to find a computer and google if Virgos and Gemini are compatible. 

Wow. Pete shakes his head, trying to clear Way birthdays out of it. He is such a fucking girl sometimes. 

Cymbals crash, bringing Pete back to earth with Patrick and his kit. Really, Pete thinks, he’s not too bad for being five years rusty. He feels a rush of pride for his friend, and launches off the boxes he’s been perched on to tackle Patrick from behind. 

“What the fuck Pete?!” The dude shrieks, dropping his sticks onto the kit with a budum-clack. Pete giggles into Patrick’s ear, nuzzling his hair out of the way to lick a gross, slobbery stripe under his ear.

“Fucking hell, you weirdo,” Patrick groans, slapping an open palm to Pete’s face and pushing him away, “Don’t you have better things to do than give me a tongue bath?”

“Nope!” Pete chirps through Patrick’s hand. 

“Am I interrupting?” Mikey Way says to Pete’s left.

His eyes snap over to widen at Mikey before Pete officially loses his balance and crashes to the ground behind Patrick, flat on his back. 

“Nah man,” Patrick is saying above Pete, “Peter here is just causing problems cause he hasn’t boned since Warped started.”

Pete kicks Patrick in the back for that. He might’ve called him a cunt if his air supply wasn’t still knocked out of him. 

“Yikes.” Mikey says, and Pete watches him fiddle with his glasses in his peripheral. Mikey has nice fingers, he thinks. 

“Anyway,” Mikey continues, letting go of his glasses, “Just wanted to make sure you’re still on for tonight.”

Patrick swallows, and glances back at Pete. To his credit, Pete tries to give him a genuinely encouraging grin and double thumbs up. Patrick turns back to Mikey Way and nods.

“Yeah,” He says, surprisingly softly, “I’m on.”

* * *

There’s something to be said about the correlation between Pete Wentz’s clothing and the way he plays bass.

Mikey can’t actually think clearly enough through the rum and coke (a cola) to unpack what that thought meant. All he can do is watch, rapt, as Pete’s purple corduroys slip even further down his hips. Holy. Shit.

Ray had said the dude was just as wild off stage as on, but Mikey had taken that lightly, as Ray’s definition of wild was about three states west of Mikey’s. Now, though, seeing Pete hipcheck literally anyone getting close to him in the pit and being completely oblivious to the fact that his lip is bloody and his pants are almost off his ass … Mikey may understand Ray a little better. 

He kind of wants to go out there? Mikey knows he’s too sloshed to even get off the top of the bus he’s perched on without breaking something major and necessary for bass playing, so he really can’t join Pete and Frank and all the others down in the lot, but he kind of wants to. He also kind of wants to yell at Pete to come up just so Mikey can tell the guy how hot he is. 

Is he though? Or is Mikey drunk? 

Mikey leans himself down flat on his back, the bus cold under his thin tee. The stars swirl. He is definitely drunk. 

Somewhere below him, someone screams, lone and joyful, before a million other voices join in.

Hm. 

Mikey pushes his glasses up to his forehead and rubs at his eyes. He’s trying not to think about what Patrick said about Pete not getting laid, but he’s pretty much failing. He’s kinda been failing all day. 

Poor Pete, he thinks. Poor, kinda-hot, Pete. There’s no reason a guy like him shouldn’t be getting fucked on a regular basis, it’s just plain unluckiness. Mikey lets his eyes shut, his arm slung over his head. Must suck.

* * *

Mikey wakes up to a general quiet and day breaking sky. 

It's not dawn just yet, he concludes, but the sky is just at that point where it's lighter than night. Within the hour it will be morning. Mikey shuts his eyes before sitting himself up. His hangover isn’t as bad as it should be, but that might just be because there's no real light yet and he may still be a bit drunk. 

Not drunk enough to still be willing to sleep on top of a bus, Mikey thinks, as he slides his legs over to the rail-ladder thing curving up the side of the bus. Mikey lowers himself down a few rungs, back to the ladder, before gripping the rails hard and pivoting on his docs to face the bus. As he descends, the world becomes considerably darker in the shelter of the buses. Whose bus was this anyway, Mikey wonders, because it sure as hell wasn’t his. 

Mikey’s docs catch on air before his brain realizes there aren’t anymore rungs, and he pitches down a bit, hitting the ground lock-kneed. 

Fucking. Ow.

He’s sucking in a few embarrassingly hissy breathes when the bus’s door opens, and Pete Wentz clad only in army green sweatpants steps out. Mikey goes still.

Pete starts to rub at his eye with a sheet-creased hand, but freezes when he focuses in on Mikey.

They both just stand there for a beat, staring at each other. 

“Ah, well - hi.” Pete finally says, his voice at least three octaves lower than usual from sleep.

“Huh? Yeah ... hi.” Mikey replies, voice just as fucked, shoving his hands in his uncomfortably warm jeans.

“So,” Pete croaks, “Was that you, then?”

“Huh?” Mikey says.

“The noise,” Pete stares at him, before pressing further, “Were you on top of our bus?”

“Oh.” Mikey says, “Yeah. I was. I’m down here now.”

“Yeah.” Pete says.

This might’ve been the worst conversation Mikey's ever had, and he worked at a GameStop in high school.

“So,” Mikey blurts out, because his still-intoxicated brain can’t stand this and he needs another human buffer to stop him from doing something stupid like kissing Pete, “Just you in there?”

Pete looks fucking stunned.

“Uh, well, no. The guys are in there too, but if that -,” Pete takes a step back, like he’s gonna turn heel and run, “- if that was like, a joke about what Pat said, then I guess yeah - just me.”

“Huh?” Mikey says, for like the fifth time in the last five minutes, mind racing to comprehend anything Pete just said. 

“I get it’s like, incomprehensible for a guy like you, but I’m really not in demand around here.” Pete is saying, arms crossing defensively over his bare chest. Mikey’s eyes are drawn to the movement and then stay glued there because, well, bare chest.

“I - what?” Mikey says to Pete’s chest.

“I’m not getting laid, Way. Sorry to disappoint, I guess?”

Why were they talking about that? Mikey was doing so good at not thinking about that. 

“Y’know,” Mikey starts, feeling low panic rising in his throat at his lack of filter thus far, “That really doesn’t make any sense, because usually the people here are, like, all over guys like you.”

“Rubbing it in?” Pete says, bouncing slowly on his heels.

“What? No.” Mikey says, putting a hand up to his forehead, “I mean, like, you’re pretty hot. Like, I think so. So it doesn’t make sense why you haven’t even gotten, like, a quickie all of Warped?”

Pete huffs a laugh, “You offering, Way?” 

Mikey’s brain stalls.

“I- … well.”

Pete’s arms tense and he rubs his sides.

“You’re still drunk.” He says, voice neutral. 

“Yeah.” Mikey agrees.

Pete takes a few steps until he’s all up in Mikey’s face. His collarbone is like. Right there. Mikey can feel his body heat through his tee. 

“Go back to your bus, dude.” He says, giving Mikey’s shoulder a solid push. He stumbles back a bit and nods, before turning in what he hopes is the right direction.

“Night.” Mikey, mumbles.

“Not at all, Mikey Way.” Pete replies from somewhere behind him.

The sun has broken through the blue, turning everything not in the bus’s shadows gold.

* * *

Pete didn’t even register that Mikey Way had called him hot until he was back in his bunk, under a small mountain of blankets. 

“I mean, like, you’re pretty hot.” He had said.

Like, I think so.

You haven’t even gotten, like, a quickie?

Pete turns over onto his back, staring at the top of his bunk’s paneling. It was fine, he thinks, that Mikey Way called him hot. It was fine that all he did was blink when Pete basically fucking propositioned him. It was all fine.

Mikey Way has nice fingers, Pete’s brain says.

Yes, Pete agrees.

What would those fingers look like around your cock, Pete’s brain says. 

What? Pete thinks, and then realizes, boom - he’s half hard. 

He lies perfectly still for a second, but the bus is still dead asleep. Fuck it.

Before he can pussy out, Pete slides his hand down his chest and under the waistband of his sweats. He bites his lips closed preemptively as he closes a hand around his dick. 

Something in his groin tenses up immediately, and Pete’s almost inclined to laugh. It’s really been a while, hasn’t it? He’s not usually one for jacking off in a bus full of his bandmates. 

His thighs twitch involuntarily, and Pete sighs. Might as well, he thinks. He presses his thumb right on the head of his dick, trying to be straight to the point. Mikey, he tries to think through a bit of haze, wouldn’t cum from just having a hand on him. Buck up, Pete.

His hips press forward, and his thumb is a little pre-slick now. 

Mikey, his brain says again, Mikey.

Shut up about Mikey, Pete thinks back, I’m trying to last!

Mikey Way and his tight jeans and easy tee’s. His long fingers and sharp hips. 

Pete bites his lip, pressing his palm flat against himself, and tries to just breathe silently, but he can't quite stop the groan that slips out when he rocks up into his hand. He’s genuinely almost there, which would be embarrassing if Pete wasn’t just kinda offered a blow job by the hottest guy at Warped. 

At that thought, Pete’s brain basically floods itself with the image of Mikey Way, glasses skewed, lips and long fingers stretched around Pete’s cock all the same, and he jerks up hard and gasps dangerously fucking loud, spilling hot and hard all over his fist, all over the inside of his pajama pants. 

For a minute he just lays there, totally still. Then Pete’s drawing his hand back up his stomach, slowly, and raising it up to his face. His fingers are trembling slightly. He lets his hand fall onto his chest with a wet smacking sound.

Fuck. 

Jacking it to the thought of Mikey Way has Pete shaking. 

Yeah, he needs to fuck Mikey.

* * *

Joe and Toro have been talking for hours at this point, Pete swears. They found each other right at the start of tonight’s bus party and haven’t stopped yapping about Fenders and Les Pauls since, and Pete is fucking bored. Iero is back in My Chem’s bus with the older Way brother, watching some shitty horror movie, so there’s no proponent for moshing tonight. The music isn’t even that good, which is dumb because this is fucking Warped Tour. Someone should have a fucking Agent Orange CD. At this point, Pete would accept anything but the Sex Pistols thats blaring out of some sound equipment a very dedicated techie must’ve dragged from backstage.

So here he is, sitting on the lot’s pavement as two guitarists jabber above him. Pete feels like a kid at a cookout and he fucking hates it. He wants to get up and push Patrick over or something, but he’s kind of exhausted from that night’s show. 

There must've been something in the air on stage, cause Patrick and Andy have long crawled into their bunks and there's almost no one dancing tonight. It’s a slow, hypnotic kinda party, with everyone leaning against something or someone. 

Pete sighs, evidently loudly enough for Joe to reach down and ruffle his hair absent-mindedly. Pete scowls at that, combing his fingers through his disheveled fringe, knowing he’ll have to sacrifice an hour of his morning to re-straighten it anyway. 

He has yet to see Mikey Way (legs, fingers, or otherwise) tonight, and it's starting to make Pete antsy. He feels like a wire wrapped tightly around a finger - taut and cutting off vital blood flow. Mikey could be around any corner, on top of any bus, and Pete isn’t ready. He feels stupidly trapped, like if he lets himself get up and go looking for the dude, his brain will take that as permission to creep about Mikey even more than it already does, but if he does nothing Pete’s skin will literally light on fire. 

Tonight sucks, he thinks. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Pete sees some brave soul pull the plug on the blaring music setup. The lot gets significantly quieter, as most take that as their exit queue. Pete stands, brushing his shoulder against Joe.

“I’m gonna …” he said, voice scratchy from not being used all night.

Joe nods in Pete’s direction, still engrossed in whatever Toro is gesticulating about. Pete slips between two buses and walks for about a minute before he realizes he’s not going back to the bus. Pete’s body is doing whatever it wants, as it so often has been these days, and apparently it wants to walk all the way to the edge of the lot and climb the singular tree that he finds there. 

Pete climbs the, admittedly not very tall tree, with no fucking regard for his already string-blistered fingertips. He lets the bark rip at his palms as he scales the tree, reaching the top of the trunk in mere seconds.Its almost disappointing. Pete tests a few of the branches, but none are sturdy enough to hold his weight. He sighs, looking up at the half-moon from behind the leafless branches. It’s a clear night.

“Pete?” A voice calls, right below Pete, and he startles and loses balance. His hands scrabble at the bark as he awkwardly half-falls, landing on his feet but with bleeding palms.

“Oh fuck,” Mikey Way says, grabbing Pete’s hands in his own, “Dude that’s gotta sting.”

Pete stares, mind fritzing on adrenaline and confusion.

“What are you doing over here?” He spits out, and Mikey just shakes his head. 

“Frank and Gee wanted the bus.” 

* * *

Mikey swallows hard, hoping that weak-ass lie would be enough for Pete. What was he supposed to do, admit to following the poor guy? No fucking way. 

“You should wash these off.” Mikey says, tapping the un-marred side of Pete’s hands. “I think there’s some neosporin in the medkit backstage, if you’re willing to walk back.”

With me, he silently adds.

“Medkit?” Pete asks.

“Have you never used it?”

“Not at this venue.”

“Oh.” Mikey bites his lip, “I could show you where it is. You’re gonna need another set of hands to apply that shit, anyway.”

"That'd be so awesome," Pete smiled, and every feeling other than relieved happiness vanishes from Mikey’s stomach all at once, "I'll have to think of a way to repay you though." 

You could fuck me, Mikey’s brain unhelpfully supplies.

“Dude, it's my fault you fell. No repayment necessary.”

They start off towards the venue. 

“It’s not actually that bad.” Pete says after Mikey’s dropped his hands, “My fingers are fine. I can still play.”

“Yeah, but you can’t do important stuff, like jack off.” Mikey points out. Of course that's where his mind went. Of course.

Pete, thank god, laughs. 

* * *

“Yknow,” Pete says as they open the door to the greenroom, “I haven’t actually jacked off that much since we started the tour.”

“But Patrick said-” Mikey frowns, crossing over to the coffee table and kneeling.

“-Yeah I know. I just … I don’t like doing it on the bus, yknow?”

Mikey smiles.

“Fuck yeah I know, I tour with my brother.’

“Oh wow.” Pete cringes. “I am so sorry dude.”

Mikey stands, holding a pack of wet wipes and a tube of neosporin.

“Nah man,” he says, crossing back over to the wall Pete’s leaning on and handing him the wet wipes, “I’m the one whos sorry. I can’t imagine not cumming at least once a week. I don’t know how you’re not insane.”

Pete grabs a wet wipe and cleans off the dried blood from his palms. 

“Maybe I am.” he winces.

“You’re gonna get some action at some point,” Mikey says, uncapping the neosporin and pushing a dollop onto his fingers, “its fucking Warped.”

Mikey takes Pete’s hands and starts to rub the medicine in. Pete sucks in a breath.

“You offering?” He says, only because he doesn’t want to whine in pain.

Mikey doesn’t respond immediately, continuing to rub the neosporin in. He takes a second, looks at the palms in his hands, and then up to their owner.

“Yes.”

Pete blinks.

Mikey drops his hands and steps closer.

“Mikey, you don’t have to, rea – ah,” Pete starts to say, but his words trail off into a gasp as Mikey flattens his hand and slides his way down Pete’s stomach.

Placing a very deliberate hand over the bulge of Pete’s pants, Mikey turns his head up to flash a smirk just before he drags his palm down Pete’s zipper.

Tonight does not suck, Pete thinks.

His eyes focus onto Mikey again, particularly his cheekbones and the way the light from the still-open door catches on them. He is insanely pretty, Pete thinks, and he has his pretty hands on my dick.

Pete should fall out of trees more often.

“Don’t have to do anything,” Mikey’s saying, all breathy, “I think I wanna do this. I think I really fucking wanna.”

Mikey’s in Pete’s pants now, like for real. His hand is thin and bony but so fucking warm. Pete wiggles his hips into the pressure and hears Mikey giggle. The sound of his voice lights a fucking fire in Pete’s belly. Holy shit.

He groans loudly as he sees Mikey slip a hand into his own pants. Pete reaches out and grabs his hips, pressing them together through their jeans. Mikey gasps and bucks forward and Pete sees stars. He laughs, hard, and kisses Mikey, harder. Mikey sighs into it, softly, and presses his entire body into Pete’s.

Pete fucking cums. Like, his entire body shudders and when it gets to his hips he hears Mikey gasp as well.

He slumps back against the wall, wrapping his arms around Mikey to keep him standing.

“Mikey?” Pete says, once his breath is back.

“Mm?”

“Are Frank and Gerard still gonna be needing the bus?”

Mikey opens his mouth like he’s gonna say something, but then closes it, blinking kittenish-ly. 

“I was just saying,” Pete continues, ”Cause I have room in my bunk. I’m a small dude.”

“Not that small.” Mikey mumbles. Pete snorts.

They’ll take a few minutes before they move, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> thats all folks! happy birthday bert :) see u soon


End file.
